Days of Sunshine and Shock
by RoaringMice
Summary: Trip is unable to leave the planet after a terrorist strike. Survival, the aftermath, and the detritus of destruction.
1. Chapter 1

_I'd written this story a few weeks ago, and was ready to post it yesterday. Then terrorists struck London. _

_This story comes, in part, from the experiences of my friends and myself during 9/11. The subject matter, especially after yesterday, may be disturbing to some people. _

_I asked several people if they thought I should post this, and all agreed that I should, but with appropriate warnings._

**Warning:** Some swearing. Potentially disturbing subject matter.

**Summary:** Trip is unable to leave the planet after a terrorist strike. Survival, the aftermath, and the detritus of destruction.

Sequel to: Grey Sky, Broken Sword

Thanks to SueC, a wicked pissah beta, and to all those who asked me to post this despite my hesitancy after yesterday's events in London.

Disclaimer: I don't own it, I make no money from it. Not written for profit.

x-x

**November 17th**

Trip made his way down the deserted street, his path illuminated by the warmth of the artificial lights above. When he'd first arrived on Caputia, this street, even at midnight, had been busy with people strolling; crowds pouring out of the doorways of clubs and restaurants; the night loud with the sounds of laughter and voices. But tonight the street was dead, deserted but for him.

He saw something move out of the corner of his eye, but when he looked, it was simply paper blowing in the cool breeze. Probably from the bombsite downtown, he thought, from the buildings, the offices, the homes that had been destroyed in the attack.

He rested his back against the wall of a nearby shop, staring straight ahead. He felt like he'd been walking for hours, his search covering streets, hospitals, checkpoints.

His nose was running and he sniffed, then coughed. He breathed in the smells of smoke and chemicals on the air, acrid, the taste bitter on his tongue. He couldn't wait to go back to his room and shower, try to get rid of some of this now-ever-present soot.

He heard a sound from his left and watched as a long convoy of military vehicles rolled silently down the street. He gazed at them until they passed, then continued to stare after them once they'd gone.

After a moment, he pushed away from the wall with a small grunt. His feet hurt, his back hurt, but it didn't matter; he had to keep going. And the pain was, in its own way, good, because, other than those minor physical discomforts, he was numb. The pain reminded him that he was alive.

Alive, and that he couldn't give up. Not yet.

**November 12th**

"Hand me that spanner, will you?" Trip asked from underneath the shuttle, holding his hand out in expectation. Feeling the tool being placed in his palm, he said, "Thanks," as he slid his arm back under and began working again.

He moved in a rush, trying to get this repair done before the landing party had to go down to Caputia, another first contact. At least the Caputians looked like they might have some interesting technology. Maybe he'd get to go down...Sparks flew, and Trip dropped the spanner with a muffled swear.

Malcolm's voice came from above him. "Are you all right, Commander?"

Trip sighed, opening and closing his hand to restore feeling. "Some help might be nice," he replied sarcastically. Malcolm kicked his foot gently, sharing the joke, and Trip felt him slide into the space beside him.

As they began working together, he cast the occasional glance at Malcolm. It had been over a month since Malcolm had gotten clean, but there was still something a bit haunted about his friend. Not that he expected things to go back to normal right away, not after all that had happened. And they talked, sure they did, but it felt...different. Not the same. Not as comfortable. Kind of like how things had been right after Lizzie had died, and Trip had closed himself off.

He knew that Malcolm was holding him at a distance, and he wasn't sure how to bring it up, or even if he should. But he thought he understood why Malcolm needed that detachment. After all, Malcolm was probably mourning the loss of himself, of who he thought he'd been.

Grief was something that Trip was certainly familiar with, so if Malcolm needed some time -- if a bit of distance helped his friend, he'd let that distance stay. For now.

**November 17th**

Trip walked the empty streets towards the building where he was staying, his eyes on the pavement as he passed one closed shop after another, their owners unable or unwilling to get into the city to open them. Hearing a sudden rush of traffic in the still night, he looked up to see a vehicle towing another with a crushed back. It was followed by several transports filled with Caputians returning, vacant eyes staring out of dirty faces, from their work at the disaster site downtown.

As he continued walking, he passed an aide station, flowers and wreaths on the ground in front, flyers with the faces of the lost posted across the closed doors, dark eyes staring out from broad Caputian faces in a variety of shades of green. Around these posters were pieces of paper, fluttering gently in the breeze: children's drawings interspersed with messages scrawled and stuck up by passers-by. Holding up his translation device, Trip read, "...gave their lives protecting us..." before he turned away, lowering his eyes to the pavement again.

A gentle wind passed, and brought with it the acrid smoke, a smouldering stench that he'd become used to. It lifted the powder coating the sidewalk, sending it up in a swirl, and Trip couldn't help but watch as the air filled with the remnants of buildings destroyed, the ashes of ones who'd lost their lives. As he raised his eyes over the tops of the low buildings lining the street, he saw the plume of smoke from downtown rolling against the night sky.

It started to drizzle. He ducked under an awning, arms wrapped around himself, less for warmth than for comfort.


	2. Chapter 2

**November 16th**

Trip shrugged himself into his uniform, evaluating his appearance in the mirror over the dressing table in the small, bare lodging. He could hear the sounds of water from the nearby bathroom, Malcolm getting ready for the day as Trip dressed.

They'd only shared the room for one night, but he was already feeling a bit awkward about the housing arrangements. Apparently, it was high season in this city and lodging was tight, so he and Malcolm had been forced to share the space. And it had been a long time since Trip had had a roommate. He smiled and ran a hand through his hair. It could be worse, of course: at least there were two beds. And the close quarters might give them a chance to talk, although last night, all they'd done was sit on the building's front stoop drinking a warm Caputian liquor, playing cards, and watching people pass on the crowded street.

He paused, staring at himself in the mirror as he thought back to the time just before he'd found his friend's drug paraphernalia, before he knew about Malcolm's problem. How long prior to that had Malcolm been acting differently? How long had Malcolm been breaking apart, and why hadn't he realised that something was wrong with his friend?

Trip turned from the mirror, staring at the closed bathroom door. He'd been too frenzied there after Lizzie's death, purposefully staying busy so that he wouldn't scream, so that he wouldn't come apart himself. They'd only recently begun rebuilding their friendship, and now he was afraid that the truths of Malcolm's addiction would tear them apart.

Trip heard the water stop and sat down on his bed, putting things into his bag, trying to focus on the day at hand. Although Malcolm, the captain and several others from the crew had been meeting with the planetary leaders for several days prior, it was his first day there, and he had an early-morning meeting scheduled at the tech centre mid-town. Malcolm had been invited downtown, about a mile or so further south, to view their defence technology. Of course, Malcolm had refused, saying instead that he'd stay with Trip, but Trip could tell that his friend was practically salivating at the chance to view their armaments and security systems.

As Malcolm stepped from the bathroom, Trip said, "You really don't have to go with me."

"Commander..."

Trip interrupted. "It's a fairly peaceful nation, and I'll have local officials with me at all times."

"True," Malcolm said, rummaging through a drawer. "Although some other countries have been having problems, and crime is not unheard of, even here."

Trip nodded. "Yeah. It kind of reminds me of Earth, in the twentieth and twenty first centuries." He smiled as Malcolm turned to him. "Come on, you know you want to see their defence tech. It was all you talked about last night." As Malcolm tried not to smile, Trip nodded, knowing he'd won. "I'll call for the car."

He turned to the phone and dialled quickly. Last night, talking about Caputian technology, had been the first time he'd seen Malcolm so enthusiastic since, well, since before Denox, and he could understand why his friend had given in so easily this morning. After all, if Trip were even half as interested in security technologies as Malcolm was, he'd be chomping at the bit trying to get to those buildings downtown.

Trip stared up at the skyscraper that housed the technology centre, the tall silver building framed against the bright blue sky, and sighed. In a way, it was a terrible day to be working indoors - the weather was beautiful, clear and crisp, the air with just a hint of autumn about it.

He entered the lobby and took the lift upstairs to the 15th floor, exiting into a bright office, windows all around, and was lost in a swirl of introductions and meetings.

During one discussion with the local officials and technology leaders, Trip leaned forward on the table, listening attentively, but his gaze kept being drawn through those windows. This building, situated on a bit of a hill, had a million dollar view of the city; he could even see the cluster of buildings where Malcolm was working, a mile or so away, soaring high over the rest of downtown.

During a break, he stood next to the monitor on the wall, beverage in hand, and simply took the opportunity to stare out at the city around him. One of the tech managers, Shrita, stepped beside him, raising her own mug in a toast to the scene.

"Usually the view isn't this great. We don't often have days this clear," she said, her dark eyes vibrant against her deep green skin.

Trip nodded, then watched as a trail of smoke began to drift across the sky. "What is that?" he asked, pointing in its direction.

She shrugged. Brow ridges rising, she replied, "I'm not sure."

"Looks like a fire," he said, watching as the smoke built to a pillar, wavering in the changing wind. The others in the room kept glancing downtown, towards the smoke, as they talked.

He heard the door open and turned, seeing one of the managers returning. She stepped next to Shrita.

"There was an explosion downtown," she said. Trip felt his stomach clench. Malcolm.

"No," Shrita replied, looking upset.

Trip pulled out his communicator and tried to raise Malcolm, then Enterprise, getting nothing but static. He could hear sirens from the streets below despite the height of their floor and, looking down, he saw emergency vehicles racing in every direction, lights flashing. He tried his communicator again.

Shrita noticed his attempts to use the device and leaned towards him. "Are you trying to reach your ship?" At his nod, she continued. "There are antennae on the top of a lot of the buildings downtown that control our communications systems. If there's a problem there, it may be interfering with our net enough to affect your equipment."

Another person reached past Trip and triggered the monitor. "We may be able to see what's happening on the news channels."

Trip's eyes fixed on the monitor, which was showing a news feed; a close-up view of a building, smoke pouring from near the top. He could see the occasional lick of flame, and sometimes, when the wind would shift, the part of the building that had been damaged.

He triggered his communicator again, and this time heard a reassuring "chirp". Stepping back from the monitor and through the small crowd in the room, he said, "Malcolm?"

"Commander?" came Malcolm's voice, and Trip actually felt his shoulders lower as he relaxed.

"Are you okay?"

"Yes, although there's a fire in the..." The signal faded, then cleared. "They've told us to stay here."

Trip nodded. "Yeah, I can see what's happening on the news feed." He returned his eyes to the monitor, watching as smoke continued to roil. "They're saying that there was an explosion, maybe some kind of accident. Was that your building?"

"No, we're all right. It was the building next door. Rattled our windows, though."

Trip could hear a muffled voice speaking in the background through the communicator, and asked, "What's that?"

"Hold on a moment," Malcolm replied.

"All right, but..." Trip let his voice trail away as he stared at the scene playing out before him on the monitor. He watched, not quite registering the sight, as a large projectile of some sort swerved across his view. In disbelief, he saw it slice right through the top of a second, uninjured, building.

He heard a sob from beside him, and said the first thing that came to him, "What the hell was that?"

That was not an accident, he thought.

He watched as debris began spilling from the building: paper, glass, concrete, something dark. He heard a gasp from the crowd in the room, and realised...that had been a person. He'd just seen a person falling...

Frozen in shock, he whispered into the communicator, "Malcolm?" There was no response.

Turning back to the window, Trip just stood there and watched as paper rained down upon the city. He felt himself start to shake, and turned back to the monitor, wrapping his arms tightly around himself. He watched for a long time, barely registering the images flowing across the screen.

He heard a collective scream, everyone in the building around him, below him, above him, shouting simultaneously as another projectile flew past, and then the first building fell.


	3. Chapter 3

_Thank you for your reviews. They're quite important to me, as they inspire me to write. They also let me know if the story is working._

x-x

**November 18th**

Trip lay in bed watching pictures flick by on the monitor, the room around him dark. He hadn't been able to sleep, so he'd been flipping through channels, not caring what was showing so long as it wasn't the news feeds.

He sat there numbly, staring at the glowing box as images played across it, unseen. After that first day, there had been no further bombings, but this nation, this city, still seemed to be waiting anxiously for the next attack from within. He'd been searching for Malcolm for two days, not including the day of the bombings. Two days, walking from checkpoint to checkpoint, hospital to morgue, hoping for news, but there had been nothing. He'd left information about his friend with the authorities, left messages to be sent to Enterprise, but there were hundreds...no, thousands of people missing. And with no contact from Enterprise, and no ability to reach them, he was lost as for what he could do.

The intercom buzzer sounded and he started, surprised. It was the middle of the night; he barely knew anyone here. The buzzer sounded again, then a third time, so he went to the view screen and turned it on with a cautious, "Yeah?"

He could see the empty street, then a man moved into view, wild-eyed, unkempt, staring fiercely into the monitoring device. Trip stared. "Malcolm?" he asked, barely recognising his friend. Not waiting for an answer, he hit the trigger for the entrance lock, then flung open the door and raced down the stairs to the entryway. When he reached the foyer, he saw Malcolm there, uniform torn, holes burned across the sleeves and shoulders, hair on end. His face was soot-stained, expressionless but for his eyes.

Trip drew him into a fierce hug, saying nothing. Malcolm stood stiff in his arms at first, then he laid his head against Trip's chest.

After a long moment, Trip stepped back. Wordlessly, he grabbed Malcolm's hand and led him upstairs to their room.

Trip closed the door behind them, and Malcolm pulled away, moving to their window, staring out at the dark night sky.

Trip stepped to his side and said, quietly, "Where have you been?"

"Walking," Malcolm replied, still looking away.

"Walking?" Trip asked, confused, but keeping his tone gentle.

Malcolm nodded, then turned away from the window. He sat on his bed and stared off at nothing.

Trip sat beside him. "You've been missing for days." When his friend made no response, Trip, worried, said, "I tried to find you. My communicator isn't working." He placed a hand on Malcolm's arm. "We can't get out. I mean, Enterprise is in orbit, I'm sure, but I haven't heard from them, and we have to wait, air traffic isn't allowed. Enterprise is probably helping with refugees, anyway." He paused, realising that he was babbling. "I've been trying to find you."

Malcolm didn't react.

Trip moved from his place on the bed and squatted in front of his friend, directly in his line of sight. Malcolm's eyes slowly moved to meet his.

"Are you okay?" Trip asked.

Malcolm shrugged. "Do you mind if I have a shower?" he asked, his voice inflectionless.

"Sure," Trip replied cautiously as Malcolm stood and entered the bathroom, closing the door behind him.


	4. Chapter 4

x-x

Trip sat by the window in the darkness, his feet propped on the sill as he watched Malcolm sleep. Malcolm hadn't spoken since he'd asked about the shower, and had fallen asleep on the bed almost as soon as he'd left the bathroom. Now he was sleeping solidly, wrapped in blankets, his soft breath the only sound.

Trip moved his gaze to the window, watching the smoke drift over the low buildings across the street, the plume a soft light against an otherwise clear, dark sky. He watched as shifting currents buffeted the column.

He hadn't been able to sleep; he was too wound up, but that wasn't unusual lately. Since the attacks, he'd fallen back into the poor sleep patterns he'd had after Lizzie had died. He expected that they'd take that same course: unable to sleep at all at first, then later on, sleeping all the time. He didn't look forward to the dreams, once those started.

Malcolm groaned behind him, and he heard the rustling of blankets. Glancing over, he saw that Malcolm had rolled away, pulling the blankets up over his head.

Restless, he scrawled Malcolm a quick note, then went out walking. The streets in the area, so crowded that first night, were still empty of all traffic except emergency vehicles. He wandered down to the far end of the street, near the southern border of the neighbourhood, and joined the small crowd that had gathered there; mostly Caputians, although he saw a sprinkling of Denobulans, and a few faces from peoples with which he wasn't familiar.

This end of the street had been barricaded by a combination of blue barriers and military vehicles, marked and unmarked. The authorities near the vehicles looked drained, subdued, and the crowd was mostly quiet. Every once in a while, someone would look up at the pillars of smoke in the sky, then away again.

Glancing at others in the crowd, Trip wondered about their reasons for being here: maybe trying to cross, or waiting to meet friends coming from downtown, or just looking for companionship in their sorrow. He'd come here before, back when he was still looking for Malcolm. In fact, earlier this morning he'd actually asked if he could help in some way, volunteer, needing some time away from his search, needing to do something that made him feel useful, but had been told that they'd had enough workers.

Turning away, Trip returned to their building and saw Malcolm sitting on the stoop, looking a bit frayed, wearing civilian clothes that were far too big for his slim frame.

"I thought you were sleeping," Trip said as he approached.

Malcolm glanced at him, then shrugged.

"Where'd you get the clothes?"

Malcolm looked down at himself, as if noticing what he was wearing for first time. "I found them in a drawer."

"I think they're mine." Trip smiled slightly, then held out his hand. "Come on."

Malcolm took his hand, and Trip pulled him up. They walked down the middle of the street, moving away from the direction of the barricades.

There was a roar overhead and Trip flinched, stopping in his tracks as he looked up into the dark night sky, trying to see what had caused the sound.

Malcolm bumped Trip's shoulder with his own. Quietly, he said, "Military."

Trip turned his face from the sky. "How are you doing?" he asked, peering at his friend out of the corner of his eye.

Instead of answering, Malcolm said, "Did you sleep?"

Trip shook his head. "I haven't been able to sleep much these past couple days."

Malcolm looked at him, questioning.

"At first because you were missing. But tonight, I think it was because of the silence: no engines thrumming on the ship, no vehicles in the sky, on the street. I keep listening, waiting."

They passed several restaurants and shops that were closed. Finally seeing a bar that was open, they entered, nodding to the busy proprietor before taking a table near the back. The place was packed, every seat taken, but oddly quiet, people speaking in a low murmur.

"This reminds me of films I've seen on the Blitz," Malcolm said as his eyes roved restaurant, then out the windows to the streetscape, empty of vehicles.

Trip nodded. "Or 9/11"

The lone server stepped to their table, and Trip looked to Malcolm. "Food?"

Malcolm shook his head.

Trip nodded and turned to the server. "Whiskey, please," he said, knowing he'd get the Caputian equivalent.

They sat in silence while they waited, each of them lost in thought, watching the crowd around them. When the drink arrived, Trip poured them both servings from the carafe. He watched as Malcolm stared down at the rich, amber liquid, swirling it in his glass, then downing most of it in one quick gulp. Trip finished his own drink, then poured them each another, his cheeks already warm, tingling.

Malcolm took a large sip, then said, "I've heard that communications have been spotty."

Trip nodded. "Yeah, I haven't been able to contact Enterprise." He cocked his head to the side. "We talked about this earlier."

"We did?" Malcolm finished his second drink in as many minutes. "Sorry, I don't remember."

Trip finished the last of his glass, then divided the remainder of the carafe between them. "It's all right. You were pretty out of it."

They sat for the next several minutes, drinking quietly. Trip could feel the buzz of the alcohol in his cheeks, his head, and his vision swam slightly as he watched Malcolm finish the last of the whiskey. When he was done, Trip nodded to the proprietor and ordered a second bottle to take away. After it arrived and he paid, he turned to Malcolm, "Ready?"

Malcolm nodded and stood, stumbling a bit, steadying himself with a quick hand against the table. Trip stood as well, and they stepped out onto the street, through the people who were now gathered, drinking, smoking, and talking quietly, outside the door of the bar. In silence, they began walking.

Rounding the corner onto their street, they saw a stream of people coming towards them, each holding a candle, the small flames flickering in the breeze. As the crowd passed, Trip and Malcolm turned and walked behind them, following as the people flowed down a side street, flames illuminating the walls in a flickering light. They passed walls hung with flyers; signs of the missing, the dead; snapshots of families, together on holiday, smiling. One green face would be there, circled in red, and there would be a message scrawled below in flowing Caputian script. Trip didn't need to be able to read the language to have some idea of what it said: the person's name, last seen... please contact...

As they walked, the crowd began to thin, eventually leaving just Trip and Malcolm. They continued on, neither of them speaking.

Trip saw someone wander by on the near-deserted street, looking out of it.

From beside him, Malcolm said, "He's seeing the ghosts of the dead."

Trip nodded. He didn't doubt it.


	5. Chapter 5

_Thank you so much for your reviews. Keep them coming! I love them!_

_This is the final chapter._

**November 19th**

Trip rolled over in bed and saw Malcolm sitting by the window in the dark, staring out. Malcolm didn't seem to notice him awake, so he lay there, still, watching, imagining the view; the distant smoke still coming over tops of the buildings across the way, a constant reminder.

Then, without looking at Trip, Malcolm started speaking, his voice very quiet, his accent quite pronounced. "When the first bomb hit, it shook our building. Alarms went off, and we all began to leave, but a voice over the intercom asked us to stay. Said it would be safer." He paused and wrapped his arms around himself as he stared out at the night sky. "From the windows I could see black smoke coming out of the building next door and debris raining, tiny dots of white paper flowing out of the offices, floating down to the streets below.

"They evacuated us to a lower floor. I think I heard from you then." He paused. "I felt our building shake again, more powerfully this time. Before I could react, the crowd around me let out a sound, and I saw the first person fall past the window. Then another. We stood and watched, almost silent." Still not looking at Trip, he said, his voice flat, "I think people were jumping from windows above us." Then he gave a dry laugh. "And I just stood there. I just couldn't believe...at first I thought that it couldn't be, but then I realised."

Trip sat up in bed cross-legged, the duvet pooled around his legs. He hugged himself lightly as Malcolm spoke.

"Then it was as if we all woke up, and we fled the building. I raced down twelve flights of stairs and burst outside. The street was chaotic, people bleeding, debris falling, the authorities telling us to run. Nothing made sense. I was trying to make sense of it, but...Once outside, I looked straight up at the building. There was smoke coming from the top, billowing out in a plume against that beautiful blue sky. Then debris started falling in earnest, smoke tumbling towards the ground, and I could see only the top of the building, the rest obscured by the smoke cloud.

"I looked away and saw a cloud of dust coming towards me. I ran." His eyes red, clearly upset, Malcolm glanced briefly at Trip, then turned to stare out the window again.

"You couldn't have done anything," Trip finally said.

In a voice just above a whisper, Malcolm continued. "I heard an explosion behind me. I fell. Others fell around me. I got back up and kept running. I heard large pieces of the building hitting the street. I heard screams. The air was filthy, my eyes watered. Flashing lights, piles of rubble, then I was unable to see, unable to breathe anything but the black cloud; darkness filling my mouth, my nose. There was no light. I slammed into something; a building, then a vehicle. I kept going. I found a doorway - I'm not sure how - and ducked inside. I was covered in destruction. I'd lost my communicator, my translator.

"I waited until the worst of the cloud had passed, then started walking again, moving north, away. I saw people covered, like me, people made grey by the dust, grey snow on eyelashes, hair, cheeks, all rendered colourless. Dust covered all surfaces, and there was paper everywhere. Ash and paper.

"I got lost, turned around. I think I was in shock. I sat down in the street and read the papers that had drifted out of the buildings: memos, letters, reports, invoices, lists, brochures, notes -- some scorched, some perfect." Malcolm looked up at Trip. "They were in the local language, so I wasn't really reading them. I just thought I was." He looked away.

"I'm not sure what next...I'm not sure I'm remembering." He turned back to Trip again. "I saw my reflection in a window. I remember thinking that I looked like a ghost."

Trip nodded. "I saw one of the buildings collapse. One moment, it was there. Then it was gone. I made it back here, walking. It took a while." He grimaced. "I kept looking back. I remember one time I turned and ended up bumping into someone, hard, almost falling down. Instead of getting angry, he offered me a cigarette."

Seeing Malcolm's look of surprise, he shrugged. "It's common here." Then he gave a twisted smile, and reached below his bed into his bag, lifting out a pack and a lighter. Taking out a cigarette, he lit up, all the while watching Malcolm carefully. He took a deep inhalation, holding it for a second, then let the smoke out in a rush.

"What are you doing?"

Trip shrugged. "I find it calming." As Malcolm continued to stare, he tapped the pack slightly, allowing one cigarette to poke out of the top. Then he held the pack out wordlessly. Malcolm smiled slightly, then took the offering. Putting it to his lips, he leaned forward so that Trip could light it, inhaled, and burst into a fit of coughing.

Trip winced. "Sorry. It takes some getting used to."

Malcolm, still coughing, nodded. Gaining control, he lifted the cigarette and inhaled again, more shallowly this time, then nodded to Trip. "I realise that it's a bit late to ask, but is there anything in this I should worry about?"

Trip looked down at his own cigarette, his head tilted to the side. "I did scan it." He looked back to Malcolm. "It's not quite the same as tobacco, but still...nothing good for long-term use, but it won't kill you. Not right away, anyway."

Malcolm nodded. "I suppose that it can't be worse than what I've been breathing."

Trip nodded. "It's addictive if you use it for too long, but hopefully, we won't be here enough time for that to matter."

Malcolm took another drag, then smiled. "Quitting it can't be harder than opoidu."

Trip stared down at his cigarette.

He felt Malcolm's fingers brush his hand, and heard a quiet, "Sorry."

Trip nodded and looked up at his friend. "How you doing with that?"

"All right." Malcolm smiled at him wryly. "I was actually doing fairly well until..." he stopped speaking, instead waving around him.

"You want it now?" Trip said cautiously.

"No, not now. Earlier, though, absolutely." Malcolm took a drag from the cigarette in his hand. "Earlier...today? Yesterday?" He shook his head. "When I was walking here, I saw a missing person's flyer and I stood there, staring." He took another drag, then fiddled with the cigarette. "He was smiling, wearing smart dress as if he was on a date. He looked a kind bloke, decent." Malcolm shrugged. "I wanted to be able to tell his family that he was safe..." He smiled oddly.

Trip shook his head. "There was nothing that you could have done. You barely made it out of there yourself." He reached to the bedside table for his water glass, and dropped his cigarette in.

Malcolm nodded, stretching until his cigarette joined Trip's at the bottom of the glass. "I know that," he said, straightening and touching his forehead with the tips of his fingers. Then he touched his chest, over his heart. "But I don't know it yet."

He stood abruptly and made his way to their small food preparation area. His back to Trip, he busied himself opening their bottle of whiskey, then poured two glasses and turned, handing one to Trip mutely.

Trip raised his glass. "To better days," he said.

Malcolm nodded. "Cheers," he replied, then knocked back the entire contents of the glass in one quick swallow.

Trip stared at him, then followed with his own drink. Eyes watering, he held his glass out for a refill. They drank a second toast, then a third, each leaving them gasping and, by the third, laughing at everything and nothing.

About to swallow his fourth drink, Trip paused. He'd heard a chirp from nearby, and he watched as Malcolm's eyes mirrored his own shock. His communicator. He scrambled for the drawer and pulled the device out, opening it hurriedly. "Yeah," he barked before he could think.

"Commander?" came Hoshi's voice.

Trip felt a broad smile spread across his face, and he raised his eyes to meet Malcolm's. "Yes?" he said, drawing the word out as he spoke it. Malcolm's face split into a delighted grin, and Trip laughed.

"Sir? Is everything okay?"

"Sorry, Hoshi. We're just pleased to hear from you." The communicator crackled, and Hoshi said something that he didn't catch. "Could you say that again, please?"

"Is Lieutenant Reed with you?"

"I am overjoyed to say that he is, at present, with me."

Malcolm practically leapt from his seat near the window to the bed beside Trip. "Hoshi!" he said loudly and happily.

"Sir?"

Trip bumped Malcolm's shoulder purposefully, then, trying to act serious and sober, asked, "Is the captain all right?"

"Yes, he's still in the capital city. We finally received a message from him yesterday. He's fine. Did you get my messages?"

Trip looked at Malcolm in puzzlement.

"I sent them via your local authorities. Were they delivered?"

"No, but I'm not surprised. They're kind of busy."

"The Caputians hope to reopen to transport tomorrow. Are you guys okay to wait?"

Trip looked at Malcolm hesitantly. "Sure, Hoshi," he said. "You know where to find us." Once Hoshi signed off, he looked to Malcolm. "It's our last night here. Anything in particular you want to do with it?"

Malcolm nodded, lifting the now-empty bottle. "I could use another drink."

Trip smiled. Then, in his best British accent, he said, "Let's get pissed, shall we?"

Malcolm smiled in return. "Rat-arsed." He stood, holding out a hand to Trip, hauling him up. "Bring the cigarettes."

Trip answered by raising his eyebrows, and Malcolm shrugged, his smile disappearing. "Life's short," he said solemnly. "Let's have what living buys."

Trip simply nodded.

x-x

"Days of Sunshine and Shock" is a quote from Richard Bowes. One of his stories also reminded me of the restaurant I went to just after 9/11, and it's his reference to the Blitz, so thanks to him for that.

"Let's have what living buys" is a quote from Hazel Hall


End file.
